illusion of depth
by MegalegU
Summary: Over the din of the fire trucks and the sirens of approaching ambulances it barely penetrates your thought process. It pulls you out of a murky haze and when you swivel to identify the source, your heart vaults into your throat.


You don't think, really, as you're sprinting through the throngs of people, pushing aside suit jackets and t-shirts, concerned murmurs and colliding voices.

You don't think – unless you can count one steady stream of consciousness running through your mind as thinking. You consider it to be something vital – blood running through your veins, oxygen entering your body – not something as trivial, as fragile, as a thought.

You have this…_voice_…but it is not exactly _thinking _–

He has to be okay.

It is a litany you've reserved until mere moments ago – you've always been a fan of vehemently denying something until the evidence provides itself to you, stark and obvious.

Now the statement requires more emotion, more determination, more _everything _because the evidence has presented itself pretty damn well. The only ammunition you have against it is a faith you haven't exactly been visiting as often as you know you should.

The shoes you bought last Sunday are slowing you down. They're not exactly suitable for sprinting. You bend down and it doesn't register as you untie them that you would never do this for anyone else, in any other situation; they are _three hundred and seventy-five dollar, hand-tooled, Italian leather loafers_. They are now inevitably going to be picked up by a homeless man to store his findings in.

A man is hauling a card table across the way and you vault over it with the finesse of someone who is more fit for the Olympics than a courtroom.

Skidding to a stop, you are now up against a wall of curious bystanders. You develop a strength you don't normally possess and suddenly you're in the middle of it all.

Heat – heat pressing down on you like a thick blanket settling along your shoulders, some form of water counteracting nearby and you tilt your head up to the remains of the apartment building.

Fleetingly, you wonder if there is anything left to be destroyed, to crumble and succumb to the licking flames.

There are things you want to say, a name, really. You've known it all this time, spoken it with derision and scorn, unguarded affection, sleepiness, anger, remorse. Your mouth has had this name ingrained in you. The syllables it contains are as significant as a song on your favorite record but somehow, they are stolen.

You are constructing other ways to shout an identifier, to demand the location of your associate, when the voice reaches you first.

"Harvey?"

Over the din of the fire trucks and the sirens of approaching ambulances it barely penetrates your thought process. It pulls you out of a murky haze and when you swivel to identify the source, your heart vaults into your throat.

"Mike!" you exclaim, and you've never been more glad, never felt this high, not even when you'd watched the words Senior Partner get etched onto the door of your office or when Scotty led you invitingly back to the bedroom and you'd wondered how you'd gotten so lucky.

You want to berate yourself for ever thinking you knew the proper definition of the word.

He is resting on the edge of a nearby rescue unit, hair mussed like he'd been roused from sleep, a single scratch on his jawline. He looks exhausted and scared, eyes searching for something you've always provided: security.

You honestly cannot fathom offering much else and you edge your way along until you are there, in prime position.

Trembling, your hands slide along his features, stopping intermittently to ponder his eyes, his nose, the curve of his cheekbones, the definition of his jawline – as if you will be able to define the enigma that is Mike Ross.

The truly terrifying thing is that you don't really feel as if you need to.

* * *

**A/N: **Kind of my take on Harvey somehow finding out Mike's apartment building caught fire and then promptly freaking out. Thanks for reading!


End file.
